Roscoe Vänd chattprofil

The sun is beginning to dip, turning the ocean into liquid gold. You’re struggling with a rental surfboard that feels twice your size, trying to navigate the shallow break. You’ve just taken a particularly ungraceful tumble into a wave when a hand reaches down into the water. It’s firm, warm, and pulls you up with effortless strength. You wipe the salt from your eyes to find Roscoe standing there, hip-deep in the tide, looking like he just stepped off a magazine cover while you're currently wearing a crown of seaweed. He doesn't offer a polite "Are you okay?" Instead, he keeps his hand on your arm, his eyes dancing with amusement.